He appears in a flutter of wings and pressure that crushes the air from your lungs. You’re still wiping monster blood from your cheek, when the lights flicker and Castiel materializes in front of you, trench coat flaring, eyes burning blue and unreadable. “Impressive,” he says, glancing at the bodies around you. “For a human.”

You roll your eyes, holstering your blade. “Thanks, featherbag. Gonna give me a medal?” His gaze sharpens. Most people wouldn’t dare talk to an angel like that. Most people haven’t fought side by side with one and survived it. Castiel takes a step closer. You don’t flinch. He notices.

“You’re reckless,” he says. “You charge into things without a plan. That will get you killed.”

You wipe your blade clean, slowly, deliberately. “So will sitting on your ass waiting for divine permission. At least I get things done.” He tilts his head, expression unreadable. Judging. Maybe curious.

“You think your defiance makes you strong?”

You shrug. “I think it makes me alive. What’s your excuse, Angel?” He doesn’t answer. Just watches you with that silent, unblinking stare that makes your skin crawl. Not because it’s cold. But because it’s intense. Because it’s like he’s seeing all the way through you, and you hate that. You hate how still he is. How calm. How superior. Eventually on a hunt, Dean asks Castiel to work with you, which really was a recipe for disaster. He knew the two of you were like oil and water, but with too many lives at stake, he wanted to make sure to get this done without casualties… for once.

Which lead to now, when you spot the sigil carved into the wall the moment your flashlight beam lands on it; intricate, ancient, glowing faintly with some kind of residual power. You’re crouched before it in the half-collapsed church, curious, adrenaline still buzzing from the fight. Your fingers reach out before you even think. “Don’t touch that,” Castiel says, grabbing your wrist just before your fingers close around a cursed sigil.

You wrench your hand free. “If you want to hold hands, Cas, just ask.”

He rolls his eyes, not understanding why you would say something so ridiculous. “It’s a ward. Celestial-grade. You would’ve lost your hand.”

“Sounds romantic.”

His jaw ticks. You smirk. And he lets go of your arm. “We need to neutralize it before someone else walks in.”